


Even Death

by rosalynbair



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Force Awakens, The Force Awakens - Fandom, The Last Jedi
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Mentions of Death, death au, death!ren, kylo is literally death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 10:29:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15727566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosalynbair/pseuds/rosalynbair
Summary: Kylo is death, literally. death!ren au. TLJ doesn’t exist but TFA does, a drabble. Mentions of death, angst, minor fluff? Kylo has been alone for a long time. Kinda based on the prompt of “a monster being touched gently for the first time”





	Even Death

He is death.

 

He is no demon, no god. He is not human, he is from nowhere. He has no home, no life. A being of no origin, no family. He is  _death_.

That’s what Kylo Ren would tell you, if you were ever alive long enough in his presence to get anything more than  _I am death, and I am here to claim you_.

On a battlefield, he’ll wander. His cold fingers brushing against those who have been wounded. The sight of him is feared, but not unexpected. The living does not meet his gaze, the wounded sigh in relief as he kneels over them, his shadow casting over them until their skin is grey and their eyes dull.

His robes carry the weight of blood, dragging silently over the ground as he walks. Slow, unhurried. They rarely run from him anymore.

Some beg. Some cry for him not to take them. Not to take their loved ones.  _It’s not time_  they cry, their voices hoarse as he stalks up the stairs of their home. The lights dim as he passes them, the glow harsh on his eyes. His robes cover him, hiding his face and hair.  _It is time when I am summoned_  he’ll respond, following the chord that tugged on whatever power that he carried in him, finding the one he was to take.

He recalls stories they told of him sometimes from when he was young and didn’t wear a hood. A doctor’s mask to resemble his features.  _Nose like a beak_ , they say. He was once human, but no longer.

Rumors to stories to myths. His beginning was not set in the city of Chandrila, he was not born to a princess turned general or to a smuggler. All of which were long gone, time withering them away to nothing. He had no childhood and had never known love. He was a being. A monster created by the force.

He was lonely. Melancholic. A millennia since he had seen the kind smile of his mother, or heard the loud laugh of his father. Long since he had forgotten what his home had once looked like or the friends he had once known. Sometimes, he could see Han Solo’s final moments when he closed his eyes. The event that had turned him into what he is now. Sometimes, as he gazed upon the location of his birth planet – now destroyed by time – he could vaguely hear fragments of lost memories.

Snoke had destroyed Kylo Ren, had turned him into death. Han Solo’s death had split him to the bone, Leia Organa’s agony sinking into him until her own death. He had watched each person who had loved him perish. He could not remember the last time he had been held, or comforted. The last time he had felt alive.

There was no comfort for death.

But your eyes made him pause. Such deep acceptance from one about to die. Gentle features illuminated under the dim light of your bedroom, a hand holding your mother’s as she cries softly from the chair beside your bed.

An unknown sickness had brought him to you. Undiscovered, undiagnosed, no chance of survival. Only your mother and mask covered doctor were brave enough to be in the same room as you. Your father and siblings sat downstairs, avoiding looking at him as he came to you.

A tearful cry from your sister had been drowned out by the crack of thunder outside, the lights flickering and being temporarily replaced by the lightning that flashed through the uncovered windows.

“Do you have to take her?” Your mother whispers, tears spilling down the planes of her face.

“ _Yes_.” Kylo mummers, his voice thick but smooth, quiet yet loud, surrounding you with cool warmth.

You watch him as he comes closer to you, his robes whispering and sharing secrets with the old wood of your floors. His nose peaked out from his hood, pale hands coming up to grab the tattered hems before pushing it back over his dark hair, letting the hood rest between his shoulder blades.

_Old beauty_ , is how you would describe him.  _Pained beauty_ , the type that could only ever be conveyed in ancient paintings and lost texts. Dark eyes surrounded by pale and hollow skin, sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw.  _Soft_  lips contrasting the faded yet still  _angry_  scar that ran down his face.

His weight barely registers beside you as he sits on your bed, his broad shoulders blocking you from the view of your mother, though you still held her hand. A flicker of something unknown goes through him as your lips tilt upwards ever so slightly.

“Where will I go?” You ask him, voice gentle and hoarse.

“ _Nowhere_. There is nothing after this.” Kylo responds, though he truly didn’t know. Only the force did, and he was a servant of the force.

“I don’t want to go yet.” You tell him.

“No one ever does.” He replies, his voice gentle and soothing. His one glove covered hand reaching to remove yours from the grip of your mother.

Your fingers wrap around his, your hand small against his. Kylo’s eyes move to where you hold him, watching your fingers trail upwards under his sleeve to his wrist, where there was the faint pulse. The only sign of his previous humanity. A lie of what he was now.

So tender was your touch. Almost  _pleasant_  if it didn’t have fear gripping at Kylo’s dead heart, his unused stomach knotting with a foreign feeling he hadn’t experienced for many years.

Your hand travelled up, following his arm until your fingers were at his shoulder, his silky tresses being played with gently between your fingertips. A small tilt of his head, and your hand was holding his cheek.

The warmth from your hand seeped into his cold skin, and he can’t help but close his eyes at the contact. The only touch from another person that he can recall from recent memory. The tension in his shoulders releases, the grim line of his lips falling into a relaxed pout.

Kylo’s hand reaches up, covering yours on his face. His other – bare – hand is extended to your own face, cupping your hot cheek in his hand. He could feel the life leak from you, fading away into the nothing he had told you of.

He had taken countless lives, the death count was his. No warrior or illness could claim any heads, for he was the one who took them. Their lives were his. His burden.

Your life now rested on his shoulders, death claiming you slowly. Each muscle slowly relaxed, eyes closing after the illness left your body. Your hand fell limp under his, your touch no longer warm. The cold mixed with his, no sign of you left.

He couldn’t move yet, something held him still. The force told him to stay, that his job wasn’t completed yet. His body was frozen in place, the room falling quiet around him. There was no buzzing of electricity around him, no uneven breaths coming from your mother behind him. The  _tick tick_  of the clock and the patter of the rain on the window and roof had stopped.

Kylo’s eyes open, ready to inspect what had caused the disturbance.

Your eyes catch his, your smile deepening as you stared at him. “Your name is  _Kylo_.”

“ _I am death_.”

“ _And you are here to claim me_.” You finish, sitting up and moving your legs under you until you were kneeling in front of him, nose to nose. Your body radiated no heat, your skin as cold as his as you leaned in, lips meeting his in a slow kiss.

Even  _death_  deserves love.


End file.
